


i need my girl

by goofball46



Category: UnREAL (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-05-01 05:02:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14513115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goofball46/pseuds/goofball46
Summary: rachel always disappears during the hiatus. but she has no where else to go, and when rachel is lost, she always comes back to quinn.akathe one where rachel moves in with quinn during the season break and there are lots of unmentioned feelings





	1. searching for a home

It’s the end of the season, and both you and she have plans to separately disappear and gather up just enough energy to survive when it’s time to start shooting for the next season. She’ll fill her schedule with networking events, you’re sure, even though she would never accept any deal that would make her leave Everlasting, and you’ll try to find yourself again, somewhere away from cameras and manipulation, where your mother couldn’t find you if she tried.

It’s the impending separation that has you motivated to do something. Quinn doesn’t need you, not like you need her, and even though she loves you, in whatever fucked up way she’s capable of, you know that letting her leave now is letting her spend the next few months not thinking about you at all. You find her and you make your move, and she responds.

She’s going to break your heart, but that’s something you knew already. You’ve known it since the day you met her, if you’re being honest. It’s a detail that doesn’t so much seem to matter when her mouth is biting at your shoulder, nails scratching down your back as you thrust your hips up against hers in the control room.

You have her pinned against the wall, skirt hitched up to allow her thighs to wrap around your waist. Her hands find their way to your ass, and she slips them down the back pockets of your jeans, squeezing hard. It presses your hips up into her further, and she hisses with delight, her mouth trailing from your shoulder back up to your neck, her teeth sinking into the skin there almost possessively. You move your hands to her thighs, angling your hips so that she’s held up only by you pinning her against the wall, and you push your fingers further up her legs, under the skirt that really needed to disappear, like, yesterday, and she drops her head back against the wall in anticipation. You want to take a second to breathe it all in – you have Quinn King pressed up against the wall with your hand up her skirt, and she’s smiling like _that_ – but know that the second you stop, the moment will pass, and you’re not willing to risk her coming back to her senses just yet.

Your fingers find her underwear, and she lets out a contented sigh as you push past wet fabric to press into her. You find a quick rhythm, and she rocks her hips into you as best she can in her position, and it takes little more than a brush of your thumb over her clit for her to hiss out an out-of-breath _oh fuck_ and come for you. She’s more disheveled than you’ve ever seen her, lipstick smudged and hair rumpled, and the word _beautiful_ crosses your mind, but you’re smart enough not to let it pass your lips. She takes a second to breathe before letting her feet find the ground and tugging at your belt, and you want nothing more than to let her continue, but you know you have to stop her. This was just sex to her, and it’s not to you, and you can’t let her do that.

“Quinn,” you say, stopping her movement. She makes eye contact with you for the first time since this started, and she pauses before composing herself and smirking back at you with that typical Quinn King confidence.

“You were good, Goldberg.” She doesn’t bother fixing her clothes, despite the fact that her skirt is still sitting dangerously high on her leg and her blouse is open too far to really be work appropriate. She smooths her hands over her hair and gives you a look. When you don’t respond, she gives a sort of approving nod and leaves.

Jeremy, of all people, finds you there hours later. The screens have gone black and you’re stuck staring at them like they have some kind of answer to a question you don’t even know how to ask. “Hey,” he says, sitting down next to you. “Another season down.” It’s conversational enough, but there’s an undertone of something heavier, the unspoken _I want you back_ and _if only you weren’t so batshit insane_ that always hangs between you two. He only wants the version of you that isn’t about a second away from diving off the deep end, and Quinn only wants you on the brink of madness. It’s a fun game of tug of war for everyone except you, and you’ve spent enough of the season putting up with his special brand of bullshit that you really can’t deal now, so you stand.

“Sorry,” you say. “Uh, I just remembered I have to go. It’s, like, a family thing. But I’ll see you next season. Have a great break.”

He doesn’t say anything, and you stumble out into the daylight, wincing at how bright the sun is. You find your way to your car, a cheap, beat up thing you only got when you realized you wouldn’t have a place to go once the set was closed, and start it up.

You don’t know where you’re driving to, but _away_ is good enough, and you don’t look at the mansion shrinking in the rearview mirror.

It takes about three and a half weeks of living out of your car, driving up and down the coast of California, before you end up in front of her house. It’s not that you don’t have the money to get an apartment. Living on set means you’ve managed to save almost all of the money you earned this season. It’s just that there’s no place that feels enough like home to bother settling in. You always gravitated back to her, anyways. It’s one of the few certain inevitabilities in your life, no matter how much you try to break free.

Quinn’s surprised when you call. “Rachel? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you answer. “Uh, I’ve just been thinking about next season, and I think I have some really good ideas for suitors, and-”

You’re rambling, because there’s no good way to say _Oh, hey, Quinn, I’m parked in front of your house because I’m insane and you’re the closest thing to family I have so can I crash at your place for a bit,_ and Quinn’s the one who’s good at cutting to the point. “Slow down.” Quinn’s voice is comforting in it’s familiarity, and it really should be more sad than it is that your boss is the closest person in your life. “We’ve got months until next season. What’s this about? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine-”

“Where are you? You’re not with Olive, are you?”

The concern in Quinn’s voice is palpable, and it’s always given you a sort of thrill how protective she gets over you, at least whenever your mother’s concerned. “No.” You huff out a laugh. “Actually, I’m at your place.”

“You’re where?”

“I’m parked outside.”

You look up at the building and see the curtain on a second-floor window move just slightly. She’s looking at you. “Rachel, what are you doing here?”

“Can’t I just swing by to say hi?”

“You know that’s not what we do.” There’s silence on the line for a second, and you realize how easy it would be for her to send you away. There’s no reason for you to be here. There’s no reason for her to keep you around. “I’m coming down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to all 3 people in this fandom anyways come talk to me on tumblr @sarasbiceps bc i have a lot of emotions about these two!


	2. god only knows

The nice thing about Quinn is that she never asks the hard questions unless she knows she wants the answers. She'll challenge you, sure, but the second it gets too close to something too real to voice, she stops. Where anyone else might ask where you’ve been staying over the past few weeks, why you’re there, why you never got an apartment, what your plan is, Quinn just tells you that you can stay in her spare room and that she’ll get a key copied for you.

She raises an eyebrow when all you have to bring in is a duffel bag of clothes and a toothbrush, but again doesn’t say anything. And while you’re avoiding asking questions you don’t want to know the answer to, you don’t ask her how long you’re allowed to stay.

She looks stunning, not that this is any surprise. Her bangs are growing out, just a little, enough that they’re swept towards the side of her face rather than hanging straight. Her skin is slightly warmer, sun-kissed if you’re being poetic, and bare of her usual make up. It makes you keenly aware of how _you_ must look, hair unwashed and tied back in a bun, wearing your standard uniform of old jeans and a hoodie.

“Are you good?” she asks when you stare for too long, and you nod.

“Thanks,” you say, and she pauses before nodding uncomfortably, because Quinn has never been comfortable addressing too directly how much she does for you.

A few weeks in, and you’ve started learning things about her.

For one, she wakes up early every morning, even though she hates it. While you’re content to stay in bed until at least 11:30 during the off-season, Quinn wakes herself up at 5:30 every morning with a series of alarms that start a good twenty minutes before she actually intends to wake up, curses her way into consciousness, then stumbles downstairs to make a pot of coffee. The bedroom she has you in is right across the hall to hers, so after a while of being awoken by her alarms, you start sneaking downstairs to the kitchen before she makes it that far to put on the coffee for her.

After seeing you in the same three sweatshirts too often, she starts leaving clothing in your room while you’re asleep. Nothing too _Quinn_ in style, but button-downs nicer than anything you own that smell like her perfume keep appearing on the big arm chair in the room. She’s a bit taller than you, so some of them hang a little long, but they fit and they’re surprisingly comfy, so you keep them.

She’s bad at cooking and always chooses to eat out or order in rather than attempt to cook, so you start making meals. Before you were old enough to realize how fucked up things at home had been, your dad had taught you how to make some basic meals. They’re skills you haven’t used since you were thirteen, but it’s easy enough to follow a recipe, and Quinn starts stocking her pantry for you.

Quinn wears her make up on days she thinks someone’s going to see her, but other than that, she doesn’t bother with anything more than a little lipstick and mascara. The first week or so that you were around, she put on her typical face every day, but after a while, she stops. It’s weirdly nice that she’s that comfortable around you. The whole situation is oddly domestic, a word you never thought would describe either of you.

Quinn also drinks a lot, whether that presents itself as her coming home at 3:00 am with vodka on her breath or the countless glasses of whiskey she drinks throughout the day. It’s something that you’d be concerned about, if you were the type of people who got vocally concerned about each other. But you’re not, so you let it happen and pretend everything is fine.

It’s a Thursday afternoon when the doorbell rings, and you go to answer it, remembering too late that you aren’t really living here, and no one is here for you.

And of course, it’s the one person you really didn’t want to be showing up at Quinn’s door. Chet’s pupils are blown, clearly already high on something, and it takes him a second to register who’s in front of him. “Goldberg,” he says, grinning wide. He turns his head up a little, and you turn to see Quinn standing a few feet behind you, looking at him. “Quinnie. You’re taking in strays now?”

Your jaw clenches against your will, but you say nothing as Quinn brushes past you to stand in front of him. “What are you doing here, Chet?”

“I miss you,” he says, and you can see Quinn’s shoulders tense up at the words. She looks back at you, then back at him, and your mouth tastes like chalk.

“Let’s not do this here,” she tells him, and she leaves with him, shutting the door behind them.

You’re not sure why it makes you feel this gross that she’s off with him. It’s not like their relationship is any secret to anyone on set, but that doesn’t change the way your skin crawls thinking about him alone with her. Thinking about her leaning into him over dinner, kissing him, laughing at his dumb jokes that aren’t even funny. You sit in the living room watching mindless television waiting for her to come home, and the more hours that crawl by, the more your stomach twists. The TV has devolved into a string of 2 am infomercials by the time you hear her key in the lock, and you jump to your feet, turning off the TV. Quinn stumbles in, locking the door behind her, and when you lock eyes with her, she looks almost guilty. Her lipstick is smudged just a little, and her hair is rumpled, and it makes you feel like you’re about to throw up, even though you refuse to analyze why.

“You’re still up,” she says finally, and her voice is a little rough, a little slurred. You move down the hallway until you’re a foot away from her, and you stare at her. Her eyes meet yours. “What do you want, Rachel?”

“You deserve better than him,” is what you settle on, and it’s so not enough. Nothing you could possibly say could be enough. Her gaze drops from yours and she scoffs, huffing out a humorless half-laugh.

“Shut up.”

“You do. You deserve so much better. Chet shouldn’t be allowed near you, Quinn. You can’t honestly think he treats you right.”

“Shut up.” Her voice is harder this time, but you’ve never been good at letting things go.

“You know he’s going to be dating someone else in a week, right? Some pretty blonde thing and he’s going to keep sneaking around with you because he thinks he’s above it all, but you deserve better than being a second choice. God, Quinn, he treats you like _shit_.”

“Shut up, Goldberg,” she says, taking a warning step forward, invading your personal space, a Quinn move she uses to intimidate people into listening.

“You’re not someone’s side piece. You shouldn’t have to sneak around. You deserve someone who understands how incredible you are, Quinn. Someone who-”

“Shut _up_ ,” she snaps, her eyes meeting yours again. She’s impossibly close now. You can taste alcohol on her breath when she speaks, and she's wavering slightly in her heels.

Your throat is dry, and when you try to talk, it comes out as a whisper. “I-”

“Shut up, shut up. God, shut _up_.” You can feel the words against your mouth, and you have to say something. Confession wells up in your throat, and you get the sudden impression that if you don’t voice it, you’ll be missing your chance.

“Quinn-”

She kisses you then, and your brain short circuits a little, because her mouth is soft and hard at the same time, and she tastes good in a way you’ve thought about since that night in the control room, and she’s biting at your lip in a way that makes it very hard to think about anything, pinning you against the wall and tangling her fingers in your hair, her nails scratching against your scalp and sending tingles down your spine.

You pull her closer, fingers at her waist, and she moves messily to your jaw, pressing kisses that are mostly teeth to your flesh. Her fingers find their way down the front of your jeans, and back in the control room you might have been picky about how this was going to happen, but when her fingers brush your clit and your knees buckle, you forget all ideals of how this was going to go. Her fingers are quick and talented, drawing moans from you while she sucks hickeys into your neck.

“Quinn,” you choke out, your thighs shaking as her fingers increase their pace. “ _Quinn_.”

“Shut up,” she growls into your neck. “Shut up, shut up.” Her voice is breaking, but you’re so close to the edge that you can’t concentrate, and then your eyes are slamming shut and you’re coming hard against her hand, and nothing else seems to matter.

You fall back against the wall, and she’s repeating _shut up_ over and over like it still means something. She pulls her hand from your pants and wipes it against your thigh. She watches you breathe for a second, face emotionless, before pulling away and disappearing up the stairs without a word.

You follow her up after a minute of collecting yourself, but her bedroom door is closed and locked, so you retreat into your own and wait for sleep to take you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come talk to me on tumblr @sarasbiceps!!


	3. hiding from the truth, hiding from each other

Quinn’s gone before you wake up the next morning, and you stagger to the bathroom, thoughts of the previous night filling your brain. Your eyeliner from the day before is a mess, accentuating the dark circles under your eyes, so you run the coldest water the sink will allow and cup your hands under it, pouring it over your face until you feel scrubbed clean. It’s not quite enough to make you feel awake and alive, so you run a hot shower, scalding water reddening your skin. Quinn’s shampoo smells like her when you rub it into your hair, and memories of the way her short fingernails felt in your hair flood your brain. The water pounds against your back, and it’s soothing against your tense muscles, so you let yourself sink into the feeling, giving into the memories.

It’s not that you’re gay. Quinn’s just talented with her fingers, and it’s been a while for you. You’ve always had a weird vulnerable spot for her anyways.

She’s not back by lunch time, so you skip the meal and busy yourself with a book you find in Quinn’s home office. You prepare dinner – an easy pasta dish you pick from one of the cookbooks Quinn’s acquired since you started living with her – and make enough for the two of you, figuring it could serve as a way to get back to whatever normal is after last night. You pick at the meal when it’s done, stomach empty yet unwilling to eat, and you wait for Quinn.

When it’s 9:00 and she’s still not back, you dump your portion in the trash and pour hers into a Tupperware container you find in the cabinet and stick it in the fridge. You fall asleep before she comes back, and when you wake up, she’s already gone again. The only sign that she even came home is the cold coffee in the pot downstairs, which you pour into a mug and drink. You make her dinner again, and she misses it again, and you stack this new Tupperware on top of the first one. She comes home before you’re asleep this time, drunk and with Chet latched onto her neck like a leech. You’re in your room when she arrives, and she makes eye contact with you as he stops her outside her room, pulling her shirt down over her shoulder to kiss the skin there, and your stomach turns but you watch anyways until she pulls him into her room and slams the door shut behind them.

 The next morning is the same routine – she’s gone before you wake up – except the left over dinner from the first night is missing from the fridge. You watch shitty daytime TV and don’t cook dinner and spend the day on the couch. You don’t look up from the Maury rerun you’re watching when Quinn comes home with Chet again, and when you go back to your room, you stare at the ceiling and listen to them having sex. Chet’s a grunter, and it’s disgusting, and you toss and turn until finally getting to sleep.

This pattern lasts until the following Saturday. Sometimes you’re awake when she comes home, other times you’re not. She’s always drunk and always with Chet. It still makes your gut pinch up if you think about it too much, but when you don’t, a familiar sort of numbness sets it.

Saturday night, you fall asleep on the couch. It’s a restless kind of sleep, and you’re woken up by the TV turning off in the middle of the night. You groan softly at being awoken and crack your eyes open. It’s dark, but the light in the next room is on, and you squint as your eyes adjust. Quinn is right in front of your face, so close you can feel her breathing, and you let your eyes open the full way to meet hers. Your head is foggy from sleep, but you know Chet’s not here, a realization that makes your stomach flip in a good way.

“Quinn,” you rasp out, and she doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at you. “I’m sorry.” She doesn’t react, and you’re not sure what you’re sorry for. For judging her, maybe. For telling her what to do. For getting too close to saying something real. Mostly for breaking the comfortable peace that you had finally reached with her. “I’m… I’m sorry.” You swallow thickly, your mouth dry with sleep. “I love you.”

“I’m going to take you upstairs to bed,” Quinn says finally, quieter than she should. Her voice is uncharacteristically soft, like she’s afraid you might break, and you’re too tired to call her out on it. She helps you stand and makes sure you don’t fall on the stairs, and when you sink into your bed, she makes you take off your jeans and pulls the blankets up to your chin.

“Stay?” you ask, when it looks like she’s about to leave for her own room. “Just… a little bit.” She doesn’t say anything, and it’s too dark and too late to read her expression, but she kicks off her heels and slips under the covers next to you, laying on her side so you’re facing each other. She’s so close you can feel her heartbeat, thumping fast. She’s holding her breath and you relish the proximity. “I miss you,” you mumble, fighting back a yawn. “I miss you. I’m sorry.” Your stomach tugs.

“You didn’t do anything,” she says, and it’s the closest to an apology she gets.

“I miss you,” you say again, and you want to stay awake, want to pay attention to the fact that Quinn is less than a foot away from you, but sleep is tugging at your eyelids, pulling you under.

“I’m here,” she tells you, and you’re convinced you’ve never been as close to something like _home_ as those words sound coming from her. “Sleep, Rachel.”

You listen. Not that you have a choice anyways, since it’s hard to keep your eyes open, and you can’t refuse Quinn when she’s half a breath away from you in your bed.

You’ve never slept better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eyyyy hmu @sarasbiceps on tumblr


	4. lovers or liars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fiona's here and it's a fun time

Quinn’s still there when you wake up, something that sends a wave of relief surging through your body. She’s curled closer to you in her sleep, and golden sunlight streaming through the window illuminates her face in a way that makes her look holy, ethereal. You reach out, fingers itching to touch her, and rest your arm on her waist. She sighs in her sleep and shifts closer to you so you’re almost hugging her, arm draped comfortably over the dip of her waist. She turns to rest her head against your chest, and you close your eyes to commit the moment to memory. A glance at the clock on the wall says it’s nearing 6 am, and you let yourself fall back asleep.

You wake hours later to the feeling of her shifting in your arms. If you had that kind of relationship, you’d describe it as spooning, but you don’t, so the facts are simply that she’s turned in her sleep and her back is pressed into your front in a way that fits better than it should. It’s almost noon, later than you’ve ever seen Quinn sleep in, but you don’t want to wake her and disrupt her sleep, so you try to move off the bed slowly. She makes a small noise in the back of her throat and grabs your arm as you lift it, and your breath catches. She’s definitely awake, but close enough to sleep that you’re willing to blame this on sleepiness if she will, and so you settle in closer again, curling around her properly and holding her to you. She clutches your hand to her chest and it all feels a little more more _right_ than it should.

After another hour of laying there curled around each other, she stirs again, and this time you can tell she’s really waking up. It’s a split second decision, entirely made on the premise that you don’t want to talk about how you slept together, but you snap your eyes closed and pretend to be asleep while she slips out of your arms. She’s careful to be quiet as she pads over to pick up her shoes, making sure not to wake you. You hear her hesitate at the door before slipping out, and when you finally emerge from your room, she’s gone.

* * *

She stops bringing Chet home, after that. You notice her ignoring his calls during dinner, and once when you’re watching a movie on the couch, Quinn curled up in the armchair next to you typing away at her laptop, you see your name in a text from him before she snatches her phone away and responds. Other than that, it’s like the previous week never happened.

She brings Fiona home one day after going out for lunch, and she’s entirely too giggly around her. You’ve never really liked Fiona – she was entirely too touchy with Quinn, for one – but her sudden presence in your space (Quinn’s space, really, but it’s been two months so it’s almost yours, too) makes you itch. She stays for dinner, and Quinn’s eyes sparkle when she tells jokes, and you count the number of times Quinn looks at you over the course of the meal (four, while she’s watching Fiona nearly the entire time). You break out a bottle of Quinn’s nice wine and it’s not long before the three of you are buzzed and laughing on the couch, dirty plates forgotten on the table.

“So what about you, Rachel?” Fiona finally asks, diverting her attention to you for the first time since arriving. “What’s keeping you busy these days?”

There’s no good answer for that, seeing as most of your days are spent watching bad television on Quinn’s enormous TV, so you shrug. “Oh, you know.”

“Any men you’ve got your eye on? Or are you playing for my team now?” It’s a joke, one that makes Fiona laugh into her wine glass, but you look over at Quinn anyways. Her cheeks are slightly pink with the alcohol, and she swallows a big sip of wine at the question.

“There’s no one,” you say, and it tastes like a lie, if only because Quinn looks unfairly beautiful in the soft light of her living room, legs curled up under her.

“I should set you up with someone,” Fiona says, and it’s Quinn’s turn to look at you. Her expression is inscrutable. Curiosity, maybe, fills her eyes, but something more undefinable, too. “I know this guy. You’d like him. Tall.”

Quinn laughs, draining the rest of her glass when Fiona fixes her with a look. “What? I’m sorry, _tall_ is not a good enough reason for her to like someone. Besides, Adam wasn’t even 6 feet tall.” Quinn’s hand shakes a little as she pours herself another drink. “I’m sure you know someone who would fit. Any of your friends into feminist documentaries? Third world countries? Poverty?”

“I don’t need set up,” you protest, but Quinn’s never been good at letting things go.

“What about that one guy from college? What was his name? With the guitar?”

“Oh, _God_ ,” Fiona laughs. “Matthew? Who thought he was hot shit because he got a journalism internship freshman year?”

“Oh my God, Matthew,” Quinn laughs. “Please tell me you know what he’s up to now.”

“I think he has a deal with Netflix now,” Fiona says.

“He’s perfect for you, Goldberg,” Quinn insists. “You should definitely meet him.”

“I’m good,” you respond, your throat suddenly tight. “I’m not really looking for anything right now.”

“Come on, he’s _perfect_ for you!” Fiona exclaims. “I’m texting him now.”

“It’s one date, not a marriage proposal,” Quinn tells you. “You might have fun. The horror.” You’re not sure if it’s the wine, or your imagination, or if it’s real, but Quinn’s voice sounds strange, and you wonder what game she’s playing.

“He’s in!” Fiona crows, and Quinn grins in a way that’s all teeth and doesn’t quite reach her eyes. The topic of conversation moves to who the next season’s suitor is going to be, and that’s a safer topic. Quinn’s apparently been working on some guy – a safe choice, a rich kid from Texas with some big mommy issues that promise an exciting season – and she leans in close to Fiona when she pitches, her voice low.

The thing is, half of producing is flirtation. You know this better than anyone. That’s the game – you seduce your mark and convince them that you love them and that you’re the only one they can trust and they fall for anything you say. You’ve done it a million times. Quinn has, too. There’s no reason this should be any different from the countless times you’ve seen Quinn whisper into contestants’ ears on set, or make up some nonsense for a suitor to help you set up some big drama. But it’s too personal here, too intimate when Quinn’s in her own home, tipsy and beautiful, talking to someone who’s known her longer than you have.

Her voice is low when she makes some joke. Fiona’s eyes are dark when she laughs. Your face feels hot and you don’t know if it’s the wine or if it’s Quinn’s hand on Fiona’s knee or if it’s the fact that Quinn, for whatever reason, is trying to set you up with some random guy. A glance at the clock tells you that it’s a little past midnight, and you stand, wavering a little on your feet. The wine you’ve been drinking goes straight to your head and it takes you a second to gather yourself.

“I’m going to bed,” you announce, and Quinn’s looking at you again.

“Good night,” Fiona says, and you nod and take off upstairs. It takes a while to fall asleep, and when you finally do, it’s restless. You give up on sleep sometime around 5:30 in the morning. You need to get away, breathe some fresh air or something, and you tug on a maroon hoodie, grabbing your car keys off the dresser. The door to Quinn’s room is hanging open, and you can see her and Fiona sprawled on top of the sheets of her bed, fully dressed. You choose not to dwell on it.

It’s been a while since you’ve driven. Quinn usually runs the errands, or has someone else do it for her. It’s not exactly like you have anyone to visit. It takes your car a second to sputter to life, and you pull out of the driveway, going too fast down the road. You roll down the window and the wind whips at your hair. It’s a good feeling, just to keep moving. Eventually, morning rush hour traffic floods the road, but it passes, and you keep going.

It’s nearly 11:00 when you realize how far you’ve gotten, and you stop at a gas station to fill up and stretch your legs. You’re not quite sure where you are, but you realize you’ve left your phone on the dresser, so you put Quinn’s address into the old GPS on your dash and start making your way back. Traffic gets heavy again around lunchtime, but by 4:30, you’re pulling back up the driveway.

Quinn’s in the living room when you let yourself in, and she’s on you in a second. “What the _hell_ , Rachel?” Her face is stone. “Where were you?”

“You’re not my mother, Quinn. I don’t have to report to you.”

“You disappear in the middle of the night with your car and don’t answer your phone all day. What was I supposed to think, that you died?”

“It wasn’t the middle of the night, it was the morning,” you defend. “And I didn’t have my phone on me. I didn’t think you would care, anyways. I just went for a drive.”

Quinn doesn’t answer for a bit, just looks at you, her lips pressed tightly together. It’s at least a few minutes of her regarding you before she speaks again. “I don’t know what’s going on with you.”

“Nothing’s going on with me. What’s going on with _you_?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

A million thoughts poise on your tongue. There are so many things to say. Questions about Chet. Fiona. You. You shake your head. “Never mind, Quinn.”

She looks at you. “Rachel…”

You kiss her.

It’s different from the other times you’ve kissed. You’ve only kissed a few times, to be fair, but it was always a desperate scrabble of teeth and tongues, always with the knowledge that it was just about sex. This has no promise of something more. You have no idea what it means.

Quinn shivers a little, and it breaks the moment. You pull back and look at her for a second. Her eyes remain closed for a second before she blinks them open, breathing in deeply.

“I’ll be in my room if you need anything,” you say, and the words feel forced. Quinn’s eyes are on you. You feel her watching you as you make your way up the stairs, and finally to your room. You have work you can be doing, and you busy yourself with that for a while. You know who your girls are for the upcoming season, since there are only a few weeks until filming starts, and you work on reviewing their mental health reports, making notes on weak points that are easy to exploit. Your mouth still tastes like Quinn’s lipstick.

She knocks on your door around 6:00, and you look up, chewing idly on the back of your pen. Her face is unreadable.

“I have an event tonight,” she says. “I’ll be back around midnight.”

“Okay.” She doesn’t usually tell you about her comings and goings, so you wait for more. She shifts uncomfortably.

“Do you have anything nice to wear?” You frown, and she clarifies. “There’s a thing tomorrow night. You should be there.”

“Okay,” you say again.

“Okay,” she echoes, and then she disappears back into her own room, probably to change. Your face heats up as you accidentally let yourself think about her changing.

She emerges a little while later and knocks on your door again. The dress she’s chosen is deep blue and low-cut, with thin straps that show off her defined collarbones. A silver necklace draws attention to her neck. Dark eyeliner makes her eyes even more captivating than usual, and you find that you don’t know where to look. It’s too dangerous to look her in the eye. There’s too much skin revealed to look anywhere lower without verging on something inappropriate. Your stomach flips as you force your eyes away from the base of her neck.

“I’m headed out,” she says, and you settle on her mouth. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Have fun,” you say. She nods, looking like she’s about to say something, but thinks better of it and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come talk to me on tumblr @sarasbiceps and talk to me about how YOU'RE coping with the lack of new unreal content bc my method of coping is weeping over how pretty constance is on instagram


	5. drive me crazy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> uhhhhh so this happened?

Quinn returns an hour later than expected. You’re still working, on the phone with Jay to talk about his girls, when the door slams shut. Jay’s heard, evidently, and he asks where you are, but the sight of Quinn storming towards you prevents you from answering.

“Uh, I gotta go,” you tell him. “Sorry. We’ll talk later.”

“Rach-” You hang up on him, and Quinn’s standing too close to you when you stand up to look her in the eye.

“How was the event?” you ask. It comes out more as a whisper. Quinn’s eyes are dark.

“It was terrible,” she says, in that Quinn way that means she’s not going to elaborate.

“I’m sorry,” you tell her. She watches your lips move, and you lick them self-consciously. She swallows hard.

“What are we doing?” she asks.

“I don’t know.”

She leans forward like she’s going to kiss you, but pulls back a second before she does. “This is a mistake.”

“Okay,” you say, because you’re not sure what else there is _to_ say. She kisses you anyways. Her mouth slants over yours, and you let her tongue swipe into your mouth. She grabs your waist tightly, like if she doesn’t she’s going to fall over, and you don’t know how to explain that she makes you feel more unsteady than you’ve ever been, so you keep kissing her until you can’t breathe. Stability has never been a strong point of yours anyways. When you finally do pull apart, she doesn’t let you go, just tilts her head to rest her forehead against yours.

“We’re not doing this again,” she says, and you don’t have it in you to protest. “We have a job to do. Shooting starts in three weeks. I am your _boss_. Your _female_ boss. I’m not Chet.”

You’re not sure who she’s trying to convince, and the thought of her and Chet being anything alike feels inherently wrong. This, whatever this is, is nothing like what she and Chet had. For one, Chet’s a massive asshole. For another, there are feelings welling up in the pit of your stomach which you refuse to name but which Chet couldn’t possibly comprehend. You don’t say anything.

“We can’t do this anymore,” Quinn says again, and you nod even as you press a kiss to her jaw. She sucks in a breath and tilts her head to the side, giving you better access to the column of her neck. You take advantage of it, kissing down the exposed skin, letting your tongue peek out to brush against her skin. She shivers. “R-Rachel…” Her voice skips with a sharp intake of breath as you press your lips against her collarbone. Her fingers move to your shoulders, digging in in an attempt to regain some control.

“I can stop,” you say, lips moving against her skin as you talk. Your fingers trail up her back to where the zipper of the dress meets her skin.

“No,” she breathes out, and you grin at how pliable she is. She's more out of control than you think she’s ever been.

“No _what_?” you ask, teasing her a little. You move your mouth back up to just under her ear and kiss it.

“Rachel,” she grits out. “Don’t stop.”

This is the third time you’ve had sex with her, and it’s completely different. The first two times were desperate – the first in the control room could be written off as a mistake, the second time in the hallway was to shut you up. This time, there’s no excuse other than that she wants you and you want her. The thought makes your stomach do a flip at the implications.

You tug at her zipper, and she arches towards you, pressing her body against yours. The zipper moves down enough for you to place your full palm against her back under the dress. Her skin is warm. You nudge one of the straps of her dress off her shoulder with your nose and kiss her shoulder. She’s got ridiculously strong arms – her biceps are one of the first things you noticed about her – and the muscles are tense. You take your time kissing the skin there.

The two other times you’ve done this, you never got to really _look_ at Quinn, to spend your time finding her sensitive spots and learning what makes her squirm. Now, though, there’s no reason to hurry. You find her pulse point, press your tongue against it, and suck hard when she gasps.

She’s not one for patience, and she reaches behind her back for her zipper, pulling it down so that her dress crumples at her ankles. It occurs to you suddenly that this is the first time you’ve actually seen her naked. She’s stunning, not that this is any surprise. She’s wearing a strapless black bra and matching lace panties. You pull back to take it in and moan your approval when she pulls you back to her mouth for another kiss.

“I’m not having sex with you on the couch, Quinn,” you tell her once you break for air, and she lets out a huff.

“Upstairs, then,” she says, stepping out of her dress to pick it up. You look at her for a second, standing in her heels and underwear, discarded dress over one arm, and think very suddenly that you might love her. “Stop looking at me like that,” she tells you with a disgruntled look.

“Fine,” you reply, and kiss her again. She groans agreeably into your mouth, and you let your knee slip between her thighs, pressing up into her. You can feel her warmth through her underwear and your jeans, and she lets out a surprised whimper that sends heat surging between your legs. She grinds her hips down against you and hisses at the pressure. “Upstairs,” you tell her, and you start walking her backwards towards the stairs. It takes a second, but she eventually pulls away enough to start up the stairs, her legs shaky either from her heels or from arousal. You admire her ass as you climb the stairs behind her, and the second you reach the top, she pushes you against one of the hallway walls and hungrily claims your mouth. You run your hands up and down her sides, enjoying the feeling of bare skin, and she moans and presses into you. You push her back, aiming for her door, but she shakes her head.

“Your room,” she insists, and you don’t protest. She drops her dress somewhere near the door and pushes you back on the bed to straddle your hips. She rolls her hips into yours, and it’s _hot_ , watching Quinn above you, eyes glazed over with arousal, but it’s not what you want right now. You flip her, pushing her onto her back, and hold her wrists together above her head with one hand, positioning yourself between her legs.

She moans, and you press your lips to the swell of her right breast. She closes her eyes and pushes her chest up into your mouth. You have to let go of her hands to unhook her bra, and it takes a second of fumbling, but once you get it free, you latch onto one taut nipple, lavishing it with attention and just a flash of teeth. She rocks her hips up into yours, and you use one hand to grab her other breast, dragging your thumb over her nipple so she gasps and rocks into you again. Her fingers fly to tangle in your hair, fisting in the messy brown locks and tugging just hard enough to sting a little.

“ _Rachel_ ,” she rasps out, and you look up to meet her eyes. They’re dark and beautiful and you can tell how turned on she is. It makes you clench your legs together to think of her getting wet for you.

“Patience,” you tell her, and you press your mouth to her sternum, moving your way down her body. A spot on her hip makes her jerk up against your mouth and cry out, so you stay there for a bit, sucking and kissing and nipping. Your fingers move to play at the waistband of her panties, and you can smell her arousal.

“Jesus Christ,” she says in one breath, and one shaky hand moves from your hair to the front of her own underwear. You throb at the thought of her touching herself, and groan into her skin, biting her in warning. “ _Fuck_ ,” she hisses, and you realize she’s pressing her fingers into her clit through her underwear. You pull her hand away, and she whimpers at the lack of contact before you tug off her panties, down her long, toned legs, throwing them somewhere behind you. You move back up to kiss her mouth, pressing the length of your body against hers, and she wastes no time in starting a rhythm, thrusting her hips up at you. You’re slick between your legs, but somehow it’s less important than kissing Quinn right now, and it feels weirdly intimate to be kissing her mouth while she grinds against your thigh, but it also feels better than you could’ve imagined.

“R-Rachel,” she gasps out, when you move your knee unexpectedly up into her. “I-I’m gonna-” She cuts herself off with a moan, and you realize how erratic her movements are getting.

“No,” you say, and remove your leg, and if looks could kill, Quinn would have to arrange your funeral. You lower yourself down her body until you’re where you want, and there’s a flash of realization in Quinn’s eyes before you reach your tongue out and swipe at her clit, and she cries out, her head falling back into the bed. She’s soaking wet, and there’s more than a little surge of pride at the thought that she’s wet for _you_. “Oh, _God_ ,” she moans, and you have to agree. She tastes good against your mouth, and you have to hold her hips down to the bed to keep her from bucking up against you too much. You tease your tongue over her entrance briefly, before returning to her clit, sucking it hard.

She comes with a scream against your face, and you don’t let up until she’s pushing your head away. “S-stop,” she says shakily. “I can’t…” You pull back, wiping at the wetness coating your face, and move back up to kiss her. She lets out a soft noise in the back of her throat at the way she tastes on your lips. Her fingers move to the hem of your hoodie, and you break the kiss to help her pull it off, then your tank top. She kisses you until you’re shaking with need, scratching her fingers up and down your sides and stomach.

“Qui-” She kisses you before you can say her name, and helps you push down your jeans and cotton boyshort underwear. Your inner thighs are slick with arousal, and she kisses just below where you need her. Fortunately, Quinn’s not the type to be patient, and you learn quickly that she’s good with her fingers but somehow even better with her tongue. She circles your clit in tight circles, presses inside you with her tongue, overwhelming you until you’re sobbing for release. You feel it coming, and she presses two fingers inside you as she sucks hard on your clit, sending you over the edge with a twist of her fingers.

You’re dizzy when you finally open your eyes, a status that isn’t helped by Quinn moving up next to you and sucking you off her fingers. “You’re beautiful,” you tell her, because if you don’t, you’re pretty sure you’d be committing some kind of sin. Quinn rolls her eyes, pushing sweaty bangs off her forehead, and you can blame it on the afterglow when you lean in to kiss her again.

She stays with you, then, still panting a little as she regains her breath, and you watch her, trying to remember how to breathe again. Exhaustion is already starting to tug at the corners of your mind, but it feels important to stay in the moment for now.

You’re lying in bed together, sticky with sweat, on the brink of sleep, when confession wells up in your throat again. “I-” you start, and Quinn, reading your mind as always, interrupts.

“I’m not here to be your fun little experiment with bisexuality,” she says cuttingly. It’s a stark contrast to the soft way she kissed you earlier. “Don’t say something you don’t mean just because we’ve fucked.”

You don’t know how to respond to that, and your words die in your throat. She turns her head to look at you when you don’t answer, staring into your eyes in search of something. Seeming to find it, she turns away again. “This is just sex, Goldberg.” Back to the last name again. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

You’re smart enough to know that saying anything would wind up with you being kicked out of bed, even though it _is_ your bed, and for a second you entertain the thought, debating on whether or not losing the feeling of her arm wrapped possessively around you would be worth it if it meant forcing Quinn into an actual conversation about what the _hell_ you’re doing. But she shifts with a sigh, pressing closer to you, and you think maybe it can wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhh yeah so that was just sex whoops but in the next chapter they return to set so stay tuned for actual content!! also drop your tumblr url in the comments and i'll follow you lol


	6. can't have you in daylight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the next season starts and it changes things. also they talk but not really and they act weird but also not really

For all her pliability the night before, by the next morning, Quinn has become more resolute about her decision that this has to end. She doesn’t let you protest, and anyways, what would you even say?

It’s not an easy position, you realize, being maybe-in-love with your mostly-straight female boss. Especially with the season quickly approaching, the bubble of domesticity that has made the hiatus so warm is quickly dissipating. Quinn disappears to more and more networking functions, though she brings you with her sometimes now. You mostly like the opportunity to see her in a number of different dresses, showing off more cleavage than she ever would on set. You both avoid thinking about what happens when the season starts again. You’re still unsure if she’s expecting you to move back on set.

Really, there’s only one thing that’s changed.

It’s a couple of nights after the last time you slept together. You’re half-asleep when there’s suddenly a presence in front of you, kicking off slippers and sinking down into the bed next to you. “Quinn?” you ask groggily, and she pulls the covers up to her neck, sliding backwards until she’s pressed up into you.

“Shhh,” she says, grabbing your hand and pulling it around her. “Go back to sleep.”

“What’s going on?”

“I can’t sleep,” she answers brusquely. “Go back to sleep.”

“Okay,” you say after a moment, and press your face into the back of her neck. She smells like her shampoo.

After this, she sneaks into your room more often than not. There’s nothing sexual about it. You find that you sleep worse on the nights she stays in her own room. It’s more intimate than sex, really. You wonder if Quinn realizes that, but you never mention it. Sometimes in the mornings, you can feel her looking at you. You always pretend to be asleep. Once, she even brings her hand up to cup your cheek. Her thumb brushes across your cheekbone before she pulls back. You don’t know what it means. She never addresses it.

And then, all at once, the season starts.

You offer to drive Quinn to set the first morning, and she accepts. It makes your hands shake when you think about going back to work together, and you don’t know why. She wears a blazer over a tight black and white dress, and you spend the drive in actively _not_ thinking about how much you’d like to kiss along the neckline of it.

She sends you off to meet the suitor while the other members of the crew trickle in. Madison’s early, and Jay is quick to follow. You somehow miss Jeremy arriving until he comes to find you, looking at you uncomfortably and offering a “Hi, Rach,” before leaving to rejoin the camera crew.

Some part of you is glad Quinn isn’t there to see it, before you remind yourself that she doesn’t care.

You’re there, however, to watch Chet come to set. He makes a beeline for Quinn, asking a million questions about why she’s been ignoring his calls. She says something you can’t hear, and he nods. He reaches out and envelopes her in a hug, and nausea sweeps through your stomach. Quinn looks over, making eye contact with you, and there’s a beat before she’s pushing him off, saying something about explaining everything in her office. He nods and follows her back, and you can hear the lock on her door sliding into place when it closes behind them. You think you might be sick.

The suitor is sweet, if you’re into the whole cornfed Texan type. He’s got bright blue eyes that girls will swoon for, and his hair is just the right length of shaggy. He’s got Southern charm oozing out of his tanned skin, and he cleans up nicely, too. Looking at Jay and Madison’s girls, you can tell that the season’s practically written itself. Madison’s fully convinced that one of her girls will win ( _“She’s the perfect wifey,”_ she tells you, practically glowing. _“She wants kids so bad. They’re gonna have such a fairytale family story.”_ ) but knowing the suitor’s issues with his own mother means it’ll be fun to watch Miss Baby Fever scare him off once they get further into the season. Poor Madison will be crushed watching her girl lose, but that’s sort of fun, too.

Quinn reemerges from the office a while later and refuses to meet your eyes, but you tell yourself that it doesn’t matter. You both have a job to do, and you’re both too competent to let weird sexual tension prevent you from creating a great show.

The first day passes in almost a blur. You’re exhausted by the end of it but sated in a way that only manufacturing good drama can do for you.

It’s only then that you remember that all of your stuff is still at Quinn’s. She’s sitting in the control room when you go to find her. The rest of the crew has left, and she’s looking at a calendar, planning out dates and locations. You hover in the doorway until she notices you, and when she does, her cheeks flush red. You don’t let yourself linger on it. It's not worth reading into.

“Do you want a ride home?” you ask, and she nods. She hasn’t spoken to you all day, save a few commands. Even those were mostly filtered through other people – Jay in particular had been confused when he delivered you a message from her. You didn’t have a good explanation for him as to why she didn’t just tell you herself. You don’t even really have an explanation for yourself. She puts away the folders she’s looking at and follows you out to your car.

You settle into the driver’s seat, preparing for a silent drive back. She takes off her blazer, baring her arms, and your knuckles whiten around the steering wheel.

It’s a good ten minutes before she says anything, and when she does, it takes you by surprise. “Chet wants to get back together.”

Your stomach clenches unpleasantly, and you grit your teeth, waiting for a follow-up. When it doesn’t come, you respond. “What are you going to do?”

She exhales heavily, staring out the window. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” you say. Now she’s the one waiting for a follow-up. You try not to choke on your words. “Well, does he make you happy?” You don’t dare look over at her. You don’t want to see her reaction.

There’s a long pause. You focus on the road.

“I don’t know,” she says again, finally. “He’s easy.”

You snort. “He’s a dumbass.” You can feel her eyes on you, watching your reaction. But you’ve had this conversation before. It’s really not your responsibility to remind Quinn that she’s settling.

“Most men are,” she responds, and _that_ makes you look over. Quinn turns to fix her eyes resolutely on the road out the window. Her expression doesn’t give anything away.

You pull into her driveway and unlock the front door for her. She tugs off her shoes as she moves down the hallway. It’s already nearly two am – filming always ran ridiculously long in the first couple weeks – and you watch, hovering awkwardly as she fixes herself a drink. All of your stuff is still in your room, but you never actually discussed with her whether or not you’d be staying now that the set is open again.

She downs the scotch quickly, places the glass back down on the counter. She doesn’t look at you. Your eyes trace her profile, the gentle slope of her nose, the curve of her lips, her chin. She sighs and closes her eyes for a second and you let yourself remember, against your better judgment, what it was like to kiss her.

She’s in motion before your thoughts get too far ahead of you, and you watch her move towards the stairs, still unsure of what you’re supposed to do. She finally looks at you from halfway up the stairs, and it’s too dark and too far to get a good look at her face but you tilt your head up to her anyways. “Are you coming?” she asks, and you don’t need to be told twice. You climb the stairs after her. She disappears into her room, and you go to yours. Your room. You don’t really remember when you became quite this comfortable in Quinn’s space.

You strip down to your underwear and brush your teeth in the dark, not bothering to turn on the light. Exhaustion seeps through your bones, and the comfort of the bed is calling out to you. You spit, rinse your mouth, and tug on a t-shirt to wear as pajamas. The sheets are cool against your arms when you pull them up to your neck, and you close your eyes, hyper-aware of the sound of your own breathing in the empty room.

You wonder if Quinn will come join you tonight. When the clock on the nightstand starts approaching three-thirty, you accept the fact that she won’t, and try to convince your body to sleep. It’s not like you’re not tired. Your eyelids are heavy. The bed is bigger than you remember it being, You roll to one side and pretend that you don’t wish Quinn were next to you. Sleep comes, finally.

You’re jolted awake by a presence in the room at the side of your bed, and you sit upright, squinting at the clock. It’s nearly five – you’ve only slept for a little over an hour.

“Quinn?” you ask, and your voice is raspy with sleep. Quinn inhales and slides under the covers. You lay back down and shift closer to her. “We have to be up soon.”

“Don’t remind me,” she says. She lays down on her back and stares at the ceiling. She lets you watch her. You’re hyper-conscious of the space between you. “Why are you still here?” she asks, after a long pause.

“Hm?” You hesitate. “I can move out if you want. Go back to set.”

“ _No_ ,” she says quickly, then wrinkles her nose, the action only barely visible in the thin sliver of moonlight peeking through the curtains. “You’re not living in that trailer. My set is not a bed and breakfast.” She sighs. “That’s not what I was asking anyways.”

You wait for her to say more.

“You know you have options, right?” she asks. “If you really want to be making documentaries about starving orphans or… whatever other bullshit gets you off, you can. You have the experience. I can help you with the connections.”

You don’t know how to respond to that. You ignore her question. “You know you have options, too, right?” You’re not just talking about _Everlasting_. You’re not particularly eager to have a conversation about her and Chet again, but it’s important that she knows. “You could have anything you want. You don’t have to settle for any-” _Anyone_. “Anything,” you finish lamely. She’s stiffened beside you, and you’re careful not to touch her. It wouldn’t help at all to scare her off. “I’m just saying. You don’t have to force something just to have something.” It’s thinly veiled, but both of you are experts at talking around things and ignoring the obvious by now.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she says, after a heavy silence. Her voice is thick. “Why are you still here?”

“I love you,” you tell her. She turns her head. You can’t make out her features in the darkness of the room, but you know she’s evaluating you.

“I love you, too. You know that. You’re still not answering my question.” She turns her body towards you. “You could have everything you want.”

You bite back saying that you already have it _._ It’s not true, really. You know _Everlasting_ isn’t it for you. There’s so much more you want to do. You want to do something that _matters_. But the thought of leaving Quinn is… it’s unfathomable. You need her. She needs you. “I have enough.”

“I don’t want you to think you’re trapped here,” she insists.

“I’m not. I’m not. Quinn…” You resist the urge to reach out and find her hand and lace your fingers through hers. You’re pretty sure she would actually leave. “You _get_ me. Like, you really get me.” You think about your mother. About Coleman. You think about how Quinn would protect you no matter what. “I want to be here with you.”

Quinn’s quiet for a long time, and you’ve almost convinced yourself she’s fallen asleep when she speaks again. “We have to be on set in an hour.”

You groan and press the heels of your hands into your eyes until bursts of color glow behind your eyelids. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“We need to sleep,” she says unnecessarily, and you nod.

“We shouldn’t have stayed up so late.” You don’t really mean the words. The realization hits you more than it probably should, but you think you would gladly give up sleep forever if it meant Quinn would be soft with you like this.

“That’s my fault,” she says, and you roll your eyes, even though she can’t see it.

“Night, Quinn.”

She doesn’t answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmu on tumblr @sarasbiceps


	7. under your spell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> woof it's been. A Second. tbh i was gonna wait to write this chapter until i'd seen the last season of unreal to make sure nothing important happened that would change things, but i still haven't seen it and i def will when i can but in the meantime im gonna continue writing this. anyways. enjoy! im gonna have the next chapter up sooner than this one, promise.

Quinn’s in a spectacularly bitchy mood on set the next day. You’re not especially surprised, given her lack of sleep, but given that you’re in a similar situation, you’re not in the mood to deal with it. You’re not in the mood to deal with much of anything, and the little patience you have runs out after trying to deal with a contestant sobbing over how the suitor doesn’t _look_ at her like he looks at the other girls. It takes all your willpower not to snap at her that she was never going to win anyways, and she needs to stop expending this much energy on a guy. So maybe running on an hour and a half of sleep wasn’t the best plan. Whatever. You chug shitty coffee from the crafts table and ignore how heavy your eyelids are.

Sometime around lunchtime, your phone buzzes with a text. It’s an unknown number and you’re ready to write it off as a wrong number when you remember that night Fiona came over and offered to set you up with her college friend.

_Hey!_ the text reads. _This is Matt. I was given your number and told you might be interested in a date?_

As far as opening texts go, it’s innocuous enough, if boring. You ignore it and shove your phone back in your jeans pocket. No part of you wants to go out with one of Fiona’s friends. There’s a whole debacle at the pool when one girl hits another that grabs your attention away anyways, and you mostly forget the text as you go to break up what is possibly the lamest fight in the entire world.

Your mood significantly worsens when you see Chet pull Quinn away into her office. He’s got that lecherous smile on, and Quinn’s rolling her eyes but doesn’t put up too much of a fight before letting him take her into his office. It pisses you off enough that you pull your phone back out.

And yeah, maybe it’s immature. Maybe this isn’t the solution. But screw it. If Quinn can be with Chet and still come home to sleep next to you every night, you can go on a date with some random guy.

_Hey, this is Rachel. Dinner tonight?_

He texts back almost immediately, and you already regret agreeing to it, but he promises to pick you up at 8 and it would be a huge dick move to stand him up the same day you made the plans. You considering asking him to meet you at set, and then you wonder why you’re thinking so much about what Quinn would think to see him in her driveway, and then you remember the way her voice sounded when she encouraged Fiona to set you up with him, and then you’re texting him Quinn’s address because fuck Quinn anyways, if she’s just going to be running around with Chet and acting weird with you and making everything confusing.

Quinn and Chet emerge from her office a while later, and now it’s your turn to avoid her. You don’t want to think about what they were doing in there. It’s easy enough, since it’s not just the two of you who are irritable today. The contestants are all on edge, and there’s enough drama to keep you busy until you start losing sunlight.

Quinn calls it an early night, probably because she’s tired too and you’re not doing overnights for another few weeks anyways. You drive her home and don’t talk and you don’t know how you keep doing this with her – having conversations that really should _mean_ something and then going back to pretending like nothing’s changed.

You really should say something. The words “So are you and Chet together or what?” sit on the back of your tongue, waiting for you to work up the nerve to say it. You don’t. Quinn doesn’t offer anything either, and a quick glance confirms that she’s fallen asleep only a few minutes into the drive.

You shake her awake back at the house and she looks disoriented as she blinks her eyes open and takes in the fact that she’s changed locations. She wavers a little when she opens the car door and stands, and your stomach tugs. You consider cancelling on Matt, again. But he texts and says he’s excited to meet you, and guilt prevents you from doing it. Quinn settles in on her living room couch with her laptop, yawning over her emails, and you make your way up to your room to change for your date.

You wriggle into your date jeans – they’re black and tight and make your ass look incredible – and throw on a lowcut top. You keep the makeup light, really just some eyeliner and mascara, and let your hair down. It’s a simple look, nothing fancy, but you know you look good. Matt texts you saying he’s on his way and uses emojis like a teenager. You don’t respond and instead head downstairs, sitting on the other side of the couch from Quinn. She looks up and stares at you, and you avoid her gaze, thinking of the way Chet leered at her. The way she let him.

“Where are you going?” she finally asks, and you push your hair back from your face to finally make eye contact with her.

“I have a date.” Her lips flatten into a thin line, and you roll your eyes. “Yeah, whatever. You were the one who told me to go out with this guy, Quinn. And I’m sick of you saying one thing but meaning something else. I’m going on this date with Fiona’s friend and I am going to have dinner and I am going to have a good time, and if you have anything to say about it, you can tell it to Chet, because I deserve to be taken out for a good time.”

She doesn’t say anything, just looks at you, and you thank the _Lord_ that Matt’s timing is what it is, because it’s barely a minute before you hear a car in the driveway. “Don’t wait up,” you throw over your shoulder as you walk out, and it’s mean. You know it is. You don’t turn around to see her reaction.

Matt’s cute. He’s got a floppy mess of auburn curls and bright green eyes, and when he grins at you, dimples appear in his cheeks like some kind of Disney prince. He’s holding open the passenger-side door when you approach the car, and he shuts it after you, like a gentleman. “It’s so good to meet you, Rachel,” he says. “Fiona’s told me so many great things.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes – Fiona barely knows you – but it’s sweet. “Yeah, I’m super excited to go out,” you tell him. “It’s been, like, such a crazy day, you have no idea. I needed this.”

He grins again and asks about work while pulling out of the driveway. You give a noncommittal answer and ask him the same in return. “It’s great, actually,” he says, and his eyes light up. “I actually just got a great deal with Netflix. I’m doing a docuseries on orphans in Guatemala.” You think of Quinn teasing you about wanting to make TV about starving orphans, and instantly push the thought out of your brain. You let Matt talk about this school he helped build, but mostly zone out and stare out the window. At some point in time, you would’ve been interested. You’re not really sure why you can’t seem to bring yourself to care. You tune back in just as he’s asking if you’ve ever been to Guatemala, and you shake your head no and he launches into a speech about how you absolutely _have_ to go, and how his experience there was _life-changing._ At some point, you probably would’ve thought of him as your dream guy.

He pulls up to an Italian restaurant, and he spends dinner talking about his Netflix thing. You pick at your meal. His hair is the wrong shade of brown. The waiter brings the check and you feel guilty for feeling happy about it. Fuck Quinn for making you feel bad about this date, anyways.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and you nod.

“Of course,” you say, flashing him a smile. “Thank you so much for bringing me here.” His frown doesn’t fade.

“You haven’t said much, and you barely ate your meal. Was everything okay? Am I- oh, God, I’ve been talking too much, haven’t I? I’m so sorry, sometimes I just monopolize the conversation, that’s awful of me. I’m doing it again, aren’t I?” He gives you a sheepish smile, and your stomach turns.

“No, that’s not it at all, I promise. You’ve been wonderful. It’s just been a long day.” You try to focus on something other than his eyes. “Uh, do you want to split the check?”

The drive back to Quinn’s place is both too long and too short, and neither of you say anything the whole time. He parks in her driveway, and you tell yourself you’re not going to check if the lights in the house are on. Her bedroom light is. Not that it matters. Matt awkwardly moves to open the door for you, and you get out of the car, letting him shut the door. He looks at you and you look back, and when he moves to kiss you, you wonder why he’s still interested after what a shitty date you’ve been all night. You let him kiss you anyways, and his lips are chapped and your stomach turns and you kiss him back.

For as weird as the date was, the kiss is actually pretty good. He keeps his hands at a gentlemanly position on your waist, and you let yours come up to his face, fingers slipping into his soft curly hair. One kiss turns into two, and with your eyes shut, it’s good. The angle is a little awkward, but he bends down and makes it work. You don’t know how long you stand there, kissing him like a teenager on a date, but when you open your eyes again, Quinn’s bedroom light is off. Your mind, traitorous as usual, flashes through images of her pressed up against the window, watching you kiss him. You imagine her waiting up for you. Your mouth tastes like chalk.

“Do you want to-” Matt starts, and his bright green eyes are hooded.

“I can’t,” you interrupt. “I’m sorry. You’re great and all, but I just…”

“It doesn’t have to be a romantic thing,” he says quickly. “That date sucked. But you can _kiss_.” You shake your head, taking a step back.

“I’m sorry, Matt,” you tell him. He nods. “Have a great night.” He gets back in the car and you wave him goodbye. He’s down the street by the time you unlock the door and let yourself in. You kick your shoes off and leave them in front of the door rather than moving them out of the way, something you know bothers Quinn. It’s a short walk down the hallway, then you take your time moving up the stairs.

You’ve never actually been in Quinn’s room. She’s slept in your bed plenty of times, but never the reverse. She’s never invited you in. It’s oddly invasive, and feels like a power move when you open her door, standing just barely inside her room. She’s sitting on her bed in the dark, and she turns to look at you when you enter.

“How was your date?” she asks, her tone cutting. You don’t answer, instead flicking on the lights and moving closer. She inhales when you sink slowly to your knees to put yourself more even with her. Your hands raise to cup her cheeks, and you guide her forward until her head is tipped down enough that your foreheads are touching. You can feel her breath against your mouth, and it’s shaky. She angles her chin just slightly, and you move to let her kiss you. She tastes like cigarettes and whiskey, and it’s so good. Her eyes stay closed tightly when you pull away.

“You need to figure out what you want, Quinn,” you tell her, your voice low. “I have.”

She doesn’t respond, and you stand, your hands dropping from her face. She leans towards you, almost falling forward with the sudden lack of contact. You shut her door behind you when you leave, and then your own. She doesn’t come to your bed that night, and you fall asleep before you can think too much about it.

* * *

You’re awake at six-thirty the next morning, and something is off. You ignore the feeling and go to the bathroom to brush your teeth. You make it downstairs, still in the oversized t-shirt you sleep in, and only when you’re putting the coffee on do you realize what’s off. The house is too quiet.

You pad over to the garage door. Opening it confirms what you suspected – Quinn’s car is gone. She’s already off to work without you. Avoiding you, no doubt. You wish, not for the first time, that she were as good at communicating her feelings as she is at everything else in her life.

You get ready quickly and drive into work, blasting music so you don’t have to think about anything. Shooting begins for the day, and you get to work. It takes just a simple suggestion for Madison’s girl to start launching herself at the suitor, and it’s a guilty sort of fun seeing how uncomfortable it makes him. Quinn cackles across the walkie talkie about how genius it is and how men need to grow up and confront their feelings, and you turn off your walkie to avoid telling her something about who exactly needs to grow up and discuss feelings.

Jeremy comes sniffing around during the elimination ceremony, since it’s routine enough that he can leave the rest of his team to figure out filming it without having to micromanage. “Rach, I haven’t seen you at all recently.”

“Yeah,” you say, breathing out heavily. “I’ve been busy. Sorry.”

“I just miss you,” he continues, and you cringe internally.

“We aren’t together,” you remind him, and it comes out harsher than you intended. “Look, Jeremy, you’re great. But we’ve done this a million times. You and I just don’t work.”

He looks like he’s about to say something, and you’re saved by a girl sobbing. The suitor’s cutting Madison’s girl, and it’s a whole scene. The suitor looks uncomfortable, and Madison’s girl is sobbing about family and how he was leading her on and how they were going to have a _life_ together, and you grit your teeth and compartmentalize and snap at some camera man to get a tighter angle on how ugly Madison’s girl is when she cries.

You’re out before you’re supposed to be, and you beat Quinn home. It takes you a grand total of ten seconds to decide you don’t want to deal with her when she gets back, so you message Jay and he tells you about a party happening at some club downtown.

It’s mostly his friends, which makes you realize for a second how few friends you really have outside of work, but his friends are nice and buy you drinks and don’t make you think about anything for very long. By the time one of his friends is helping you into an Uber, you’re high on a mix of coke, tequila, and the thumping music of the club. The bassline still thrums in your veins and Jay gives you a worried look as he shuts the Uber door. You’re definitely drunker than you probably should be, and you entertain the thought of letting yourself pass out in the backseat, before you remember that you didn’t actually call the Uber and don’t know where you’re going.

The driver rolls to a stop in a vaguely familiar driveway and you thank the driver and stumble out, blinking at the house in front of you. It’s hard to focus on much of anything – the house seems to be moving in front of you, and you stagger over to the bushes next to the front door and throw up. A light flicks on in one of the windows, and you’re too busy throwing up to notice the figure in the window until they’re at the door and you realize exactly what house this is.

“Rachel,” your mother says disapprovingly, and your stomach twists from something other than the alcohol. You’re so fucking sick of people disapproving of you, of not being enough. “Rachel, what are you doing here?” You sway on your feet and try to manage enough words to answer, but before you can, she grabs you by the shoulder and guides you inside. There’s little you can do to resist, and you wonder how your life has ended up falling into endless circles of your mother and _Everlasting_ and Quinn and drugs and betrayal and love and Quinn and Quinn and Quinn and you can’t ever escape. “Are you okay?” your mother is asking, and you’re somehow in bed now, and her question registers and you can’t do anything but laugh, long and harsh and hopeless, and she looks at you and you fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anywayssss come chat @aeryns on tumblr!


	8. love how bittersweet it tastes

She lets you sleep until well into the late afternoon the next day. You regain consciousness sometime around three, stumble into the bathroom next door to your room, throw up into the toilet, and throw yourself back into bed for another hour. Drifting in and out of sleep, you’re vaguely aware of your phone buzzing incessantly somewhere on the floor, a fact which you ignore. Olive comes to get you up at four-thirty, and asks you a question, but you’re so preoccupied with the disgusting taste in your mouth and how Quinn must be reacting to you ditching work that you don’t listen and have to ask her to repeat it. She frowns at you.

“We should talk, Rachel.”

Except you’re done hearing other people talk. “I know what you have to say. I’m not interested.” You force yourself into an upright position, ignoring how your head spins. You blink a few times to focus your eyes and grab your jeans off the ground, tugging them back on. You’re not sure at what point last night they came off. Your phone falls out of your pocket and hits the ground with a thump.

“If you’re not interested, then why did you come here last night? You say you’re not my daughter anymore, Rachel, but I know you. I know you better than anyone. You’re here for a reason.”

“I don’t remember,” you tell her honestly, and you shove your phone into your back pocket without checking the screen. It buzzes against your ass and you don’t want to think about the forty texts you’re sure you have from Quinn, demanding to know where you are.

“Subconsciously, Rachel, you know that you need to be here. With me. You know I’m the only one who can help you. Who’d be  _ willing  _ to help you. Look at you.” You stand and instantly regret it. “Each time you leave you tell me you’re never coming back. And look where you end up. Where you always end up.”

“I have to go to work.”

“She’s not good for you.”

Your chest clenches. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Quinn. She’s going to destroy you, Rachel. She’s not good for you. She’s just as manipulative as you are. She’s only using you to get what she wants. She’ll throw you out when she’s done with you, and then where will you be? You’re putting everything on one woman who will never care about you as much as you want her to. You’re always second place. To everyone.” You can’t breathe. “Rachel. Wasn’t it easier when I was taking care of you? I know how to make you better. Your father agrees. He wants you to be home with me. You haven’t been taking your medicine.”

You want to throw up again, and you’re about to speak when the doorbell rings downstairs. Olive’s face tightens, and you follow her out of the room. It’s Quinn. It has to be Quinn, coming to see you. To bring you home. To prove her wrong.

“I meant what I said the last time we spoke,” you tell her. “You mean nothing to me. I’m not your patient, I’m not your daughter. You don’t get to talk about the people I choose to let in my life. You don’t get to be part of that.”

You turn to open the door.

“Rach, hey.” It’s Jay. You squint at him in confusion. “Um, I’m here to pick you up.”

“Who are you?” Olive asks.

“I’m Jay,” he says. “I brought her here last night. I’m here to pick her up.”

“You’re from the show,” she says in recognition. “Your part of  _ her _ … toxic-”

“Thank you,” you breathe out, and you sweep past your mother and are halfway to Jay’s car before he even turns to follow you. You hear him say something to your mother, but you’re in the passenger seat by the time it occurs to you to listen in, and you pull out your phone.

Three missed calls from Quinn, one right after the other at almost 3:30 am. Then nothing but texts from Jay.

**Jay [8:47am]:** _ rach, where are you????? _

**Jay [8:50am]:** _ girl it’s one thing to be hungover it’s another thing to not fucking show up _

You scroll down.

**Jay [12:03pm]:** _ quinn is pissed. ive never seen her this mad. _

**Jay [12:04pm]:** _ WHERE _

**Jay [12:04pm]:** _ IS _

**Jay [12:04pm]:** _YOUR_

**Jay [12:04pm]:** _ASS_

There’s even a series of texts from Madison later, and not a single one from Quinn. Jay slides into the car beside you and turns the key in the ignition, and you let your phone drop to your lap.

“I’m sorry, Rachel,” he says, pulling out of the driveway.

“For what?”

“I didn’t realize I wasn’t supposed to bring you here. You don’t really talk about home much. With me, anyways. I knew you and your mom were… but I didn’t think about it. It was in your phone as your home address, so I just called the Uber there.”

“It’s fine,” you tell him. “Seriously.”

“Quinn spent most of the morning yelling at me about it,” he admits. “So, you know. Mom’s looking out for you. In a scary kind of way. What’s going on with you and her, by the way? You guys have always been weird, but it’s gotten weirder.”

“Nothing’s going on,” you answer.

“Yeah, sure.” He gives a huff through his nose. “Well, whatever, don’t tell me.”

“How has today been?” you ask. “Did you get any good footage?”

“We haven’t been filming,” he says. “Quinn’s literally gone insane. She wouldn’t let anyone do anything until we told her where you were, and I told her that I sent you here last night. Then she yelled at me – thanks for that, by the way – and then she disappeared into her office for a while, and then Chet tried to talk to her and she yelled at him, and then she sent me to come find you. You didn’t miss much.” You try to picture that – Quinn giving up a sunny day of shooting to be mad at you, and something about that image makes you uncomfortable. At least she and Chet are fighting again.

“Can we stop by the club before we go back to set?” you ask. “I want to pick up my car.” He nods silently, and you sit next to him and think about how you’ve been a shitty friend to him for literally years now and you look at your phone screen and wish that Quinn had messaged you even once to ask if you were okay.

And fuck. You’re in love with her. That’s really not helpful.

Jay drops you off at the bar and you slip behind the steering wheel and follow him back to set. The drive isn’t nearly long enough, even with traffic, and before you know it, you’re parking and getting out.

The first person you see is Madison. She evaluates you for a beat before saying, “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” you respond, and she furrows her eyebrows.

“We haven’t gotten anything done today.” She glares at you, and it might mean more if you took Madison seriously at all.

“Okay,” you say, and you really don’t care to listen to her sulk about this, so you brush past her, trying to fix your hair with your fingers as you go. You settle on tying it into a messy bun and make your way into the control room. Quinn is the only one there, standing in the center of it all with a blank expression. She’s staring at the screens, which are just recording a bunch of nothing – the empty pool, the empty cabana. She doesn’t seem to have noticed you, and you clear your throat. She whips around and stares at you. “Sorry about that.”

She exhales and it’s shaky and you ignore it because she couldn’t even be bothered to text and ask where you were herself. "You look like shit," is what she says when she finally speaks, and you roll your eyes because of  _ course _ .

“Cool. Is there, like, anything else you wanted to say? Or can I go?”

“This is your  _ job _ , Rachel. I expect you to be here everyday  _ on time _ or at least have a valid reason why you’re not.”

“Fuck off, Quinn.” She looks at you. “You can’t just pretend like we’re two people who work together. That’s not what this is, and you know it. You’re pissed because I went on a date and because I went out and because I didn’t call you and because I didn’t consult you for every little thing, but you know what Quinn? We’re not dating. We’re not even friends. You won’t admit what you want and I am allowed to be an adult with a life and you don’t get to be mad at me for that.” Quinn’s eyes are unreadable and you wish she would just tell you what she’s feeling. Olive’s words echo in your head.  _ She’ll never care about you as much as you want her to. _ You grit your teeth. “I’m trying to wait for you to figure it out.”  _ You’re always second place.  _ “Quinn, I don’t have forever.” Your stomach is turning again, and if you throw up in the control room, Quinn’s going to be pissed.

She looks like she’s going to say something. Her mouth opens and shuts, and your chest hurts so badly you can hardly breathe, and her eyes are searching yours for  _ something _ .

She’s saved from speaking when Chet walks in. “Oh, thank God,” he says, oblivious as ever to the tension in the room. “Goldberg is back. Now we can get back to work.” He walks up to Quinn and wraps an arm around her, and Quinn doesn’t take her eyes off you and you know what it means, you know what it means that he’s looking at her like that.

“Rachel, I-” she manages, and her voice is hoarse, but you cut her off.

“Save it, Quinn.” You shake your head, focus on the screens. “Where are the contestants? Is anyone, like, actually doing their job, or does this place, like, revolve around me?” You pick up a walkie talkie. “Can we get some drunk girls in bikinis hating each other in the pool?”

The set comes to life around you, assistants rushing to get the girls. “Can I get an interview with Kennedy set up?” Someone behind you rushes towards the contestants’ rooms, and you turn back to the whiteboard at the back of the control room, unnecessarily reviewing Kennedy’s file. It’s all pretty straightforward - she’s an Instagram model, not a lot of substance there. A long line of messy breakups with exes that keep cheating on her, insecurities to exploit.

You can feel Quinn’s eyes on you. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t follow you when you leave to find Kennedy, and you don’t look back.

The rest of the day is… uneventful.

Weirdly so. Quinn gives you a lot of space, if you ignore the way her eyes track you around set. You get good footage of Kennedy breaking down about how she thinks she’s incapable of being loved and how she can’t trust long-term relationships and isn’t comfortable enough with commitment to feel like she’s good enough for the suitor. It’s dramatic at least, if a bit predictable, and she cries and screams enough that you’ll be able to make something out of it. The suitor gets caught by one contestant with his hand up one of the other girls’ shirt a little later, which leads to a big blow-up between the two contestants. There’s no elimination ceremony tonight, so you get a couple interviews with the girls while they’re still angry and then send them all to their rooms. The camera crew packs it in and heads out, followed by the assistants, and you make your way to the lounge chairs by the pool. Madison leaves soon after, and Jay follows her, stopping to look at you.

“Rach, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” You wave him off, smile tightly at him. “Don’t even worry about it.” He regards you for a second, looking like he wants to say something but isn’t sure it’s the right thing to say. You drop your gaze to the pool.

“If you need anything-“

“Jay,” you cut him off. “I’m totally fine. Calm down.”

The conversation is interrupted by muffled yelling from the control room. You both turn to look at the door, and it takes just a moment for Chet to emerge, looking angry and chastised at the same time.

“This is your fault, Goldberg,” he says, jabbing a finger in your direction. He stomps off towards his car, and Jay looks back at you.

“Yikes. I’m getting out of here. Good luck with that.” He nods towards the control room. “If she kills you, I’m taking your stuff.”

“See you tomorrow.”

Jay takes off to the parking lot, and you don’t move.

So. Quinn’s angry. Quinn’s angry again and she’s yelling at Chet while also cuddling up to him in the control room, whatever the fuck that means. Quinn’s angry, and Jay’s confused, and none of it matters.

“Is everyone on this set incompetent?” Quinn snaps as she bursts out of the control room. “Can any- Rachel.”

You don’t turn to look at her.

“Where the hell-“ She stops, then starts again. “Why…”

_ She’ll throw you out when she’s done with you. _

“Where are you staying tonight?”

“I don’t know.”

Her heels click against the ground behind you, loud in the emptiness of the set. “Can you…”

“I need to move out, Quinn.” You turn to look at her finally, and she looks… exhausted. Beautiful, always. But her eyes are tired and your soul aches and you don’t know how much longer you can stand this.

“What?” Her voice is sharp.

“We can’t… I don’t know what we’re doing. But I can’t stay in that house with you. It doesn’t make any sense.” Her lips press into a thin line. “You need your space. I need mine. I just…”  _ She’s going to destroy you, Rachel.  _ “I need space. Away from you.”

She visibly falters, flinches. You swallow.

“This place isn’t the problem, Quinn. It never was. You just… you get in my head. I need space, I need to think.”

You’re  _ not  _ agreeing with your mother. That’s not what this is. This is… this is you finally making a decision that makes sense. Putting distance between yourself and the person who’s been fucking with your head for years. You don’t let yourself think about Chet’s arm around her earlier today.

“Okay,” is all she says, and your stomach turns with the feeling that  _ you fucked up _ , and your heart pounds with the reminder that she couldn’t be bothered to come find you when you didn’t show up at work, and your head is spinning with your mother’s words and the way Quinn won’t admit that she cares about you.

“I’ll get my stuff.”

She nods. “You can stay tonight. It’s already late.”

The stronger part of you, the part chanting that she’s never going to be able to give you what you need from her, tells you to say no. The weaker part, the part desperate to fix this and to give yourself up to her completely, latches on to it. “Okay.”

You drive back alone, trailing her car to her house. There’s a half-empty bottle of Patron on the table when you walk in, and Quinn disappears to her room and you enter yours. It’s a numb experience, throwing your stuff in a bag. You’re too tired to feel any of it.

This isn’t supposed to feel like a breakup.

You’ve been asleep for a while when you wake up to the feeling of someone watching you. It can’t be any earlier than two in the morning, and you shift to look at the door. She’s standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. The moonlight coming in through the window illuminates her crossed arms, you can see her eyes on you.

It takes a while before she speaks. “I care about the show.”

It’s not what you’re expecting to hear, although you’re not sure what you were expecting. “What does that mean?”

She exhales. “I will always care about the show. Above everything else. You understand that, that’s why this works.  _ Everlasting  _ is  _ all  _ that matters.”

Your mouth is dry when you swallow. “Yeah.”

“I need you for the show to work. This needs to be normal again.” She gestures at the space between you and her. “We can’t do this. You and me, that’s what makes the show work. I need Rachel, my producer. I need that Rachel back. So… whatever this is. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that we’re making a good fucking show. That’s all I care about.”

It feels a lot like rejection. It feels a lot like Quinn just cares as far as you can help her. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

You turn away from her, press your cheek into the pillow that’s not even yours. You wish you had paid more attention when things were good. Some part of you knew this would always end up like this, from the beginning.

When you turn your head again, she’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhh ok so i finally watched the final season and for the sake of this story at least im just gonnaaaa pretend none of that happened. anyways. love u all. talk to me on tumblr @aeryns


	9. city on fire

You and Quinn are arguing again.

That’s most of what you do anymore. She huffs and yells and sighs and sometimes her eyes almost look like she wants something else, and you growl back and go behind her back and talk shit with Jay and don’t let yourself think about when your heart was actually in the show and you cared like you were supposed to.

You can’t tell if she’s back with Chet or not. He’s more present than you want him to be - than  _ anyone  _ wants him to be, but Quinn snaps more days than not so no one mentions it. She yells at him as much as she yells at anyone else, and they leave separately, but she doesn’t move away when he slings a heavy arm over her shoulders.

You suppose you shouldn’t really care that much, anyways.

It’s been a week and a half since you moved out of Quinn’s. You’re back to living on set and it’s somehow colder than you remember it being.

“That makes no sense,” Quinn is scoffing, and you don’t even remember what you were arguing about.

“You know what, Quinn, whatever. Do whatever the fuck you want.” You throw up your hands and leave the control room.

The suitor is with one of the contestants on the lounge chairs by the pool. He gives you a big grin from across and you try not to roll your eyes. Jay comes to sit next to you, and you can tell by his face that he’s not happy. “No offense, Jay, but I don’t need another person yelling at me today.”

“You need to stop picking fights with Quinn.”

“Are you, like, kidding me right now, Jay?”

“I’m not fucking around, Rachel. Your little lovers’ quarrel or whatever is making the rest of us miserable. Whatever happened, you need to get over it before she actually kills all of us. Or before we kill you.”

“This is totally unfair.”

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you. All I know is that you and Quinn haven’t talked without yelling in a  _ while.  _ And she’s taking that all out on everyone else. Figure it out.”

He leaves before you can come up with a response, and you pick at a loose string on your hoodie sleeve. It’s three in the morning, and you’re miserable.

It’s three in the morning, and you’re miserable,  _ again _ , and you wonder how your life ended up here.

You should’ve gotten out when you had the chance, when Quinn tried cutting you loose to save you from the Coleman and Yael mess.

You let yourself think that maybe that was an  _ I love you  _ you could have made peace with. Less than you wanted, more than you expected. You clench your eyes shut and you can almost feel her fingers pressing into your jaw.

Your nails are bitten down to messy beds, and you pick absently at a hangnail on your middle finger. The suitor slings his arm over the contestant’s shoulder and leans in closer, whispering something to her. It’s enough to get two of the mean girls, Kayley and Lauren, to start gossiping about the other girl being a slut, and the cameramen move in closer to capture it.

You’re not going to wrap for at  _ least  _ another hour, and the set atmosphere is… terrible. The suitor is the blandest guy possible, and while you at least can rustle up some drama between contestants, he absorbs it all with no real exciting reaction.

There’s an elimination ceremony tomorrow and you’re not sure what you’re realistically going to get. In the time since the last elimination ceremony, there have been rumors of one of the girls sleeping with a PA, one physical fight, and exactly nothing that’s resulted in more than a raised eyebrow from the suitor. You’ll have to fix that at some point, but you’ll have to get yourself to care first.

You’re called into action after a while to talk down one of the girls who’s panicked about the suitor not liking her because there are rumors circulating that she’s the house slut. It’s easy enough to convince her that he finds it hot how much experience she has, and she decides to lean into it to an extent that means you at least know who’s getting cut.

Quinn’s a fucking hurricane, and you were dumb enough to get caught up in her wind. You spent long enough in the eye of her hurricane to forget you were in the middle of a storm, and she did what natural disasters do and tore you down.

Or maybe you’re the storm, like everyone says. Maybe this is how it feels to destroy when it matters.

You shove a hand back through your hair, fisting your fingers in the limp locks before dropping them. It’s hard to breathe.

The hometown trip is coming up soon, which promises to be interesting. A bit of digging gave you more information than you needed about the suitor’s mother, who skipped town when he was a kid, leaving him with a dad who wasn’t ready to raise a kid at all, even with a co-parent. He’s going to be taking the last four girls to his hometown to meet his dad and friends. The advance team to finalize prepping the location leaves in two days, and the rest of the crew follows three days later.

It sounds kind of ideal, honestly. Three days more or less alone, away from set, away from the drama of knowing anyone or anyone knowing you.

You’re still thinking about it when Quinn finally calls cut for the night, and as everyone else trickles away from set - the contestants and suitor back the the mansion, the crew out to their cars, one by one - you find yourself in front of her.

“Quinn,” you say, and you can’t decide whether you feel more sad or angry. Her face is inscrutable.

“What?”

“I want to go with the advance team to Texas.”

That takes her aback. Her stoic expression slips into one of surprise and confusion and - alarm? - before the mask of indifference slides back into place. “That makes no sense. We don’t need you in Texas. You need to be here with the contestants. Contrary to what you may believe, you do have a job to do.”

The jab is weak, but frustration surges in your stomach. After  _ everything  _ that’s happened between you and her, you’re back to square one. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it would help. Send me to Texas early. If I can meet his dad, poke around with some childhood friends, I’ll know what buttons to press. I can talk to old girlfriends. He’s a total dud for ratings, and you know it. We need to take anything scandalous we can get. Let me find it.”

Her lips pinch together and your head pounds. “We’re still shooting. You can’t just… abandon shooting for the next-”

“Quinn. Come on. You don’t need me for the next week. Nothing real is happening. Be serious.”

“I need - you need to be here.” Her jaw clenches and this is the most civil conversation you’ve had in weeks.

“No, I don’t.”

She exhales. Looks at the ground for a moment. “Fine. Have someone book you a ticket. I don’t care.”

“Thank you.”

She looks at you.

You look back.

“Rachel-”

“Quinn-” you both speak at the same time. You look away, raking your fingers through your hair. Words you can even begin to put in order fill your chest and it hurts to breathe, like you’ve had the wind knocked out of you. “Never mind,” you say, and she swallows. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She nods, hesitating only for a minute before walking away, back to her car and to the house that you shared once.

You stare at the empty pool, the moon the only light reflecting off the still water, and want to laugh. To throw up. To do  _ something. _ Your stomach turns. You call one of your friends in production to book your plane ticket.

Neither of the days leading up to the trip are productive. It takes you fifteen minutes to shove everything you’ll need into a duffel bag, and it’s just business as usual getting footage of the girls fighting and the suitor being passably handsome. The elimination ceremony comes and goes exactly as predicted. Quinn is quieter than usual with everyone, staying in the control room most of the time. Jay and Madison are both jealous that you’re going ahead of time, both claiming they need a vacation, but Jay hugs you and tells you that you deserve it anyways.

Quinn doesn’t say goodbye the night you leave, and you don’t move to say goodbye either. She smokes a cigarette down to the butt on the other side of the pool, and you watch, thinking there’s probably some sort of pretentious symbolism to be found in the gray-blue clouds of smoke leaving her lips and dissolving into the air. She doesn’t look at you, and it’s only when you realize you’re in danger of missing your flight that you leave.

* * *

There’s no room for you.

Your late addition meant that while they’d managed a seat for you on the plane (and you don’t envy the poor assistant who’d had to arrange the ticket so last minute) but you don’t have a room, which means you’re on your own to figure out where to stay. Fall in Texas isn’t quite peak tourist season, fortunately, so you book yourself a room once you land, and leave to investigate the town, see what you can learn. You shoot Jay a quick text to tell him you got there safely, and use Google maps to find your way to a bar that you vaguely recall the suitor having mentioned once.

It’s not quite bustling, but it’s cute. You make a mental note to talk to the manager and see if they’d let you shoot there.

You order a beer. The bartender is cute, rumpled, and broad-shouldered. He winks at you when he passes you the drink.

By the time it’s empty, the crowd has picked up a bit. A girl and her friends crowd together next to you, already clearly tipsy, and they flag down the bartender - Josh, according to the one calling for him - to order shots.

Your phone buzzes and you check it.

**Jay [10:44pm]:** _ see you Tuesday night. if i last that long _

You frown and send a text back.

**Rachel [10:44pm]:** _ what do you mean? _

The girls next to you toast to something and call for more Fireball.

**Jay [10:45pm]:** _ queen bitch in charge is on a rampage. madison’s cried more times than i can count and im about to fling myself off the top of the mansion _

**Jay [10:45pm]:** _ at least when you guys were fighting she had someone to focus on. i’ll give you my whole salary to come back and hate fuck her again _

You wince and don’t respond. He’s closer to the truth than he knows. Not that that’s happening anymore. Or that you want it to.

The girl closest to you stumbles on her heels, knocking into you, and you pull away. “Oh my gosh, I’m  _ so  _ sorry,” she says, patting your arm. “Here, let me get you a shot.”

“That’s okay,” you start saying, but she’s not listening.

“Josh! Josh,” she calls. “I need…” She squints at you, evaluating you behind the longest fake eyelashes you’ve ever seen. “Hm. You look like a tequila girl. I need two shots of tequila for me and my new friend.” Josh nods at her and pours out the shots.

“I’m Jessie,” she tells you, tossing back her hair and picking up one of the shot glasses.

“Rachel,” you answer, taking the other.

“What brings you to town, Rachel?” she asks. She downs the shot, screwing up her eyes in reaction. You follow suit, and give her a look. She laughs. “C’mon. You’re not from the area.” Fair enough.

“Do you watch  _ Everlasting _ ?” you ask.

“Oh my  _ gosh _ ,” she says. “Are you kidding me?”

“I’m a producer. We’re shooting here for a bit.”

“For Tristan’s season, right?” she asks, her face pinching a little. You raise an eyebrow.

“You know Tristan?”

“Know him?” She glances over at one of the girls in her posse. “Oh, yeah, I know him. But  _ that  _ is not something to discuss tonight. Tonight, you’re drinking with us.” She grabs one of the other girls’ shoulders. “Ladies, this is Rachel. Rachel, this is Erin, Lissa, Ally, Kristen, Kristen, and Emma.” The other girls give various drunken cheers.

You wonder if this is how people join cults.

“No one should drink alone. You’re with us while you’re in town.” Jessie orders another round of shots for her group. One of the Kristens looks on the verge of throwing up, but drinks hers anyways. Your phone buzzes again, and you put it on Do Not Disturb. Part of your job is convincing people to love you, to trust you. Most of your job, really. It doesn’t take much to become a part of their group - drunk girls are easy - and you find out that they’re there because Emma got a job offer and they’re celebrating. Ally’s got a crush on Josh and spends much of the night flirting with him, and Kristen’s the lightweight, significantly drunker than everyone else. The group ends up going back to an apartment, and Jessie insists that you go with them. You use the Uber ride to check your phone - it’s mostly Jay complaining. Quinn’s being a mega-bitch. Feeling particularly spiteful, you send off a  _ What else is new??  _ text and turn your phone off again. The world is fuzzy around the edges in the best way.

Jessie follows Kristen into the bathroom to hold her hair back while she pukes, and you talk to Lissa while the other girls pass out on the bed and sofa. “Listen,” Lissa slurs. “You’re doing  _ Everlasting _ ? You’re here to dig up dirt on Tristan, right? That’s why you’re hanging out with us. I’m not dumb.” You nod. “Tristan is my… was…” She waves a hand. “We dated. Except we didn’t break up.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

Lissa rolls her eyes. “It means we were dating for almost two years and then he fucking left just to go on the show. He never broke up with me, he just… left to be on the show without telling me. He’s a  _ fucking  _ asshole and you should warn those girls.” She shrugs. “It’s not the first time some bullshit like this has happened. He’s always been a cheater.” She gives a thin smile. “He and I started fucking while he was with another girl. I should’ve known something like this would happen to me.”

“Would you want to come on the show?” you ask slowly, a plan forming. “Confront him? It could help you get some closure. Plus, it would be a good warning to the other girls. You know, solidarity and all that.”

“I totally would. He’s a dick.” Lissa yawns loudly, and you hold your hand out.

“Here, give me your phone. We’ll trade numbers and I’ll call you tomorrow.” She complies before passing out, and it occurs to you that you should probably leave.

You stumble back to your hotel, fall onto your bed, and squint blearily at your phone. More texts from Jay. A text from Quinn. You jab your thumb at her name, ignoring what she’s sent you in favor of composing your own text. By the time you’ve finished your message, you’re already almost asleep.

* * *

A glance at the clock on the nightstand tells you that it’s three in the afternoon when you finally wake up, and you groan. Your phone is dead, and it takes a second for it to turn on after you plug it in. It vibrates with texts and notifications, and you ignore it in favor of washing your face in the sink. You’ve got two more days. Two more days of freedom. You strip down and start the shower, moving back to check your phone while the water heats up.

And. Well. Fuck.

**Rachel [4:47am]:** _ive got something on the suitor. ask me abt it later. dont kill jay while im gone hes scared of you. i msis you so much jt hurts_

**Missed call from Quinn [4:49am]**

**Missed call from Quinn [5:23am]**

**Missed call from Quinn [6:01am]**

**Quinn [6:12am]:** _ Okay. _

You do stupid things when you’re drunk. This? This was monumentally stupid. You toss your phone back on the bed, leaving it on the charger, and go back to the bathroom, stepping into the shower and letting the hot water hit your body.

The water pressure is shitty. You probably could’ve afforded to spring for a nicer hotel given that it’s all on  _ Everlasting _ ’s dime. You tilt your head back, feeling the water hit your hair, then your hairline, leaning until it pours down your face. You screw your eyes up and let the water splash over you, reaching back once to turn up the heat. You blindly reach for the tiny hotel shampoo and pour half of it into your palm to massage into your scalp, raking your fingers over your hair. You rinse, follow it with conditioner. It’s routine. You think about what a life without  _ Everlasting  _ would look like.

You turn off the water and wrap yourself in a towel. It’s too short to be decent, just barely skimming the tops of your thighs, and you hold it closed as you move to sit on the bed. Priorities.

**Rachel [3:48pm]:** _ Hey, Lissa - this is Rachel with Everlasting. I’d love to talk to you more about Tristan if you’re available. Lmk when you’re free. _

With that taken care of, you contemplate your other messages. You have to respond to Quinn. It’s easy enough to explain away - you were drunk, you were lonely, you would’ve said you missed anyone. It’s bullshit she’d see through in a second, but she’d probably let slide. You hit the call button next to her name.

_ This is Quinn King. Leave a message. _

“Hey, Quinn,” you say slowly, blanking on the right thing to say. “Uh. It’s Rachel. Give me a call back when you get this. I know you’re, like, busy on set.” This is stupid. “Um. I think I have a lead on an arc for the hometown stuff. We should talk about it.” You bite the inside of your lip. Exhale. “Anyways. Call me whenever. I’ll see you soon.”

Well. That was painful. You hang up and text Jay that you’re bored. He responds with something snarky about how miserable you must be vacationing in sunny Texas with no real work to do, and you ignore it.

He’s right, though, and you should take advantage of it. You haven’t been able to read since hiatus, what feels like a million years ago, so you grab the book you’ve been reading and open a window, letting the fall breeze in with the afternoon sun.

A while later, you get a text, and you rest your open book on your stomach to check it.

**Unknown [6:54pm]:** _ this is lissa! im free whenever - wld u want to get dinner tmrw? _

**Rachel [6:54pm]:** _ that sounds great. tell me when and where! _

**Unknown [6:54pm]:** _ there’s a place on 6th that’s good. i’ll text u tmrw when i’m off work and we can meet up _

You realize with the mention of dinner that you’re starving, having not eaten all day. A quick map search shows you a 24 hour diner down the road, so you find yourself sliding into a booth, greeting a tired waitress named Janna, and digging into a subpar omelette. Janna gives you cold coffee. You don’t complain.

It’s a break. It’s refreshing to be away from it, from having to argue with Quinn and lie to Jay and devote yourself to this- this  _ project  _ that doesn’t mean anything anyways.  _ Everlasting _ . Manipulations, smoke and mirrors. You pay your bill and go back to the hotel room. You fall asleep with your book lying open on your chest.

In your dreams, you’re climbing a spiral staircase in a tower. The stairs are wooden and rickety, each step creaks beneath your feet, but you can’t stop ascending. Wind blows that threatens to knock the entire structure over. The stairs seem endless, stretching out above you in an infinite loop. You climb and climb, and when you reach the top, the wind blows harder and tears the roof off. Quinn is standing there, staring at you, and you have to yell to be heard over the wind.

“I need you here,” you tell her. “I need you to tell me what you want from me. I need you to tell me what to do.”

Her eyes don’t react.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” you say, desperately. “I don’t know what to do. Why can’t we just go home?”

“We can’t now,” she responds. “It’s too late, Rachel. It’s too late.”

“I love you,” you tell her. “I don’t want to say goodbye.”

“The wind is getting strong. You shouldn’t be here anymore.”

“You can’t make me leave. Please don’t make me leave.” Her eyes are sad and beautiful. She says something but you can’t hear her over the wind. “Please don’t make me leave.”

“We’re the only ones real here,” she says, and suddenly she’s holding your face in her hands, her eyes so close and so dark that you feel like you’re suffocating under her gaze. “In the end, it’s always going to be you and me.” She smiles and pushes you away. “You have to go now, Rachel.”

“Don’t make me,” you beg, “Please let me stay,” but she just shakes her head.

“It’s time to go.” You’re falling from the tower now, falling and falling until she’s just a tiny dot at the top, watching you plummet.

You jolt awake in a dark room, shaking and disoriented. Goosebumps dot your arms, and you sit, shivering in the bed until you realize the window is still open and the once-warm-and-pleasant fall breeze had turned into chilly night wind as the sun set. You shut it and rub your arms in a futile attempt to warm yourself up. You get up to grab a hoodie out of your bag, an extra layer of protection against the lingering coolness in the air, when your phone buzzes on the nightstand. Someone’s calling you. You check the caller ID.  _ Quinn _ .

“Hello?” There’s silence on the other end. It’s so quiet you check to make sure the call didn’t drop before pressing the phone back to your ear. “Quinn?”

“It’s two in the morning,” she answers. “I didn’t think you’d be awake.”

“Sorry,” you say, because what else are you supposed to say to that?

“What do you have on the suitor?” she asks, and you launch into your story about Lissa and cheating and how you’re meeting with her tomorrow.

“I think I could get her to do a surprise appearance on the group hometown date,” you say. “Get her to show up and call him out. Expose him. Apparently they’d been dating for a little over a year when he ghosted her, only for her to find out he was going to be our new suitor.”

You’re expecting a reaction. Sure, exposing the suitor as only in it for the fame isn’t exactly the best reflection on the show’s ability to manufacture authentic love and it doesn’t quite match the fairytale that you’re supposed to sell. But it’s drama, it’s fun, it’s something to spice up the season, and the fans love a scandal. Quinn’s quiet.

“Quinn?” you ask. “Did you hear me?”

“That’s fine,” she says distantly, and you frown.

“Um. Okay. We can have them all go out to dinner and she can walk in on them and confront them, then.” She’s quiet again. It’s uncharacteristic; you wonder if you can blame the time or if it’s something else. “Okay.”

“Did no one ever teach you not to drunk text your boss?” she asks, and your stomach turns. You’re grateful that she can’t see the heat reddening your face.

“So we’re talking about that.”

“No,” she says. “We’re not talking about it. But that was… I don’t even know what that means. I don’t… No, I do. No. We’re not talking about it.”

“You’ve always known what I mean, Quinn.”

“No, I  _ don’t _ ,” she snaps, and you clench your eyes shut and wish she weren’t so  _ Quinn  _ all the time. “It doesn't matter. We’re not talking about this.”

“Right.”

“Right. Don’t send me a message like that again.”

“Okay.”

She exhales. “Good night.”

“Good night.” The phone doesn’t beep when she hangs up, but the screen lights up against your ear and the light makes you wince. Squinting, you open your messages app.

**Rachel [2:27am]:** _ sorry _

The dots appear to indicate that Quinn’s typing, then disappear. Then appear again. Then disappear. You wait for minutes for them to reappear, for a response to materialize on the screen. It’s ten minutes before you realize you’re not going to get a response, and you fall back asleep.

In this dream, it’s sunny and bright and there’s no wind at all. In this dream, you are outside, you are lying on the ground and Quinn is next to you.

“I love you,” you tell her, because that feels important, because you can’t tell her in any other way.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Quinn say, even though she’s smiling. She’s soft like this, warm. You want to keep this Quinn, this version of reality. “You know that’s not fair.”

“Why not?” you ask. “Why not? It’s true.”

“I’m not ready,” she tells you. “And neither are you.”

“I want it to be easy.”

“I’m not ready,” she repeats, and the frustration is dulled by the sun, dulled by the way her eyes light up when she smiles, at odds with the words she’s saying. “You need to talk to me.”

“I’m trying,” you say. “I want to.”

“Try harder,” she says.

“I love you.”

“Kiss me,” she tells you, and you do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rip is anyone reading this anymore?? i promise im still working on it. anyways thanks y'all for being the sweetest angels. talk to me @aeryns on tumblr. i miss unreal


End file.
